


The Things She Carries

by Edie_Rone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: ...well but that's useless to think about isn't it, Anger, Angst, F/M, Jealous Mulder, MSR, North Texas, Smut, Sweat, also not even Dana Scully comes from penetration alone, and then they lived happily ever after FIGHT ME, but DON'T WORRY i firmly believe consent is sexy, cancer arc mention, hey kids that's a pro tip from me to you re: UTIs, if these fucking people weren't so emotionally constipated, it's all consensual i promise, lil bit o rough sex, so jot that down, the past isn't dead it's not even the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 08:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edie_Rone/pseuds/Edie_Rone
Summary: She closed her eyes, dizzy again, remembering how he’d looked at her — that burning intensity, but also what she was sure was love. He loved her. He’d wanted her. He wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t want it himself unless —Unless it was some sort of favor, granting a dying woman’s wish.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A long misunderstanding about one hot night.

By the time dinner is over — a little sick from all that sweet tea, not to mention the admittedly amazing peach cobbler, which Deputy Weller insisted she get — Scully is no closer to solving anything. She is, however, fed completely up with Mulder. She knows he bailed on purpose, and she has a decent idea why; Weller does resemble a young Robert Redford and has a near-obscene amount of charm, which never fails to make Mulder little-boy-in-a-sandbox jealous, as baseless and ridiculous as that is. 

But A) Weller’s not her type, and even if he were, what business is it of Mulder’s, and B) she’s pretty sure he’s gay. Well-closeted, of course — no small-town Texas cop who wants to keep his job is going to be out, after all — but she’d gotten a definite vibe, which was part of why she felt so comfortable with him.

Which of course brings her back to Mulder’s adolescent bullshit. He had interpreted that comfort as interest, and their easy rapport as flirting. Three days so far of his huffiness, his snide remarks, his rudeness (to herself, and to Weller and the rest of the PD), and finally this — not showing up for dinner at the Big House with Weller, Sheriff King, and MaryNell Burden, the retiring DA who’d first contacted them about the bizarre circumstances surrounding the disappearances of a dozen defendants released on bail in this county in the last two years.

Scully thanks MaryNell for the ride back to the B&B — the town’s only place to stay, besides an ancient, murdery-looking motel out on the highway — and notes that their rental Ford is still out front; at least he hasn’t lit out for Oklahoma in search of jackalopes or something. Their rooms are next to each other, the only two in an outbuilding that used to be the ranch foreman’s cabin. It’s a few feet off the ground (1890’s air conditioning, Mrs. Carroll had explained), with five steps up to a small porch bordered by a wooden railing. There’s an old sweatshirt draped over the rail at the bottom of the stairs — it’s Mulder’s, she’s pretty sure, although why it’s out here, she has no idea. There’s no light in his room, the place is quiet except for the sound of crickets in the grasslands beyond the B&B’s property.

She drags herself up the stairs and into her room, stripping off her suit, hose and shoes the second the door closes behind her — ugh, how can it still be this hot at 9:00 p.m.? Off goes the underwire bra, too — she’s sweated it into uselessness. She pulls on a stretchy cotton bra, the one that’s just barely more supportive than going without, and the one tank top and pair of pajama shorts she brought; she really hadn’t counted on staying this long and was getting to the bottom of the suitcase. She washes off her clammy, sticky-feeling makeup, brushes her teeth, considers and rejects a shower on grounds that she’ll just have to take another in the morning to wash off her night sweat so why waste water.

Restless and annoyed, she decides the warm air outside will at least be better than the stuffiness in her room. She goes to stand at the edge of the porch, looking out into the nothingness beyond. Millions of years ago, this was all underwater, and still looks like the gently undulating bottom of the sea. There are tiny dancing lights down near the barely-trickling creek, 50 yards off; any other time, she’d be charmed by the sight of what Weller called “lightnin’ bugs,” but right now the fireflies’ glow just reminds her that she’s irritated enough to want a cigarette.

“Where the hell are you?” she mutters into the humid darkness, wondering again how they got into this apparently permanent interpersonal stalemate. But she doesn’t question herself too deeply, because stuffed tightly down — under layers that shift most inconveniently at times to reveal a corner of the thing — she knows, and she thinks he does too.

It’s because of that night, the night before she stopped treatment for her cancer. Her memory of it is relentlessly, mercilessly vivid. 

She’d been at Mulder’s place, allegedly just hanging out (i.e., a cover story for him watching over her, a fact neither of them acknowledged), playing Scrabble with _National Lampoon’s Vacation _on in the background. He didn’t know about the appointment she had the next day: Good news, they’d tell you over the phone; bad news, they sat you down and told you in person; the worst news, the meeting would include a counselor and hospice pamphlets.

She was useless at the board game, unable to concentrate, shaky and strange. He’d stopped asking her if she was OK after she’d snapped that she was “fucking FINE,” but he was clearly puzzled, and worried. The only thing that grounded her was keeping her eyes on him. She followed the angle of his arm reaching for tiles, watched his lips as he smiled at a particularly clever play he’d made, adored the kindness in his eyes as he gently mocked her for playing an “A” and an “E” on either side of a “T” to form “ATE”.

Gradually she began to be aware that looking wasn’t going to be enough; she wanted to touch him. Wanted him to touch her. This wasn’t a new sensation, but that night, it was blotting out reason, and fear, and prudence, and insecurity, and every other thing that had ever stood in the way of her reaching for him. He, of course, seemed unaware as always — if he had desires like hers, which she doubted, he had no problem controlling them; she was his partner and friend, and she knew he loved her in a platonic, almost brotherly way, but that was where it ended.

She spoke less and less, every nerve aware of him, her breath coming shallow and rapid, the effort of seeming normal costing her more by the second.

The movie finally ended, and at her request, he went to the kitchen to get her a glass of ice water; perched on the edge of his couch, she folded herself in half, putting her head on her knees, doing yoga breathing, trying to stop the tears pricking at the backs of her eyelids. _Get up, go home, this is ridiculous, don’t be such a baby, he doesn’t want you like this, especially not now,_ she berated herself silently.

He came back, saying “Took me a second to find two clean glasses, but —” and then, catching sight of her, sprang to her in sudden alarm. He knelt before her, panicky. 

“Scully? God — are you OK?” She nodded, but he was unappeased. He gripped her shoulders as if to keep her from falling. “What happened? Did you get a nosebleed? Do you need to lie down?”

She shook her head no, then sat up to face him, her throat constricted with a rush of emotion. _I’m not OK_, she thought madly, _I’m not _going_ to be OK, but I know what I want, right now. Please let me have it. _

Some kind of realization dawned in his eyes, and his touch changed, relaxed, became gentler. One hand lifted to her cheek, the other glided to her back; he couldn’t read her mind, but he recognized need, a different thing than pain or simple distress. And in the next instant, she knew that need was being mirrored back to her; she felt a heat rise between them, the same heat she’d ruthlessly tamped down inside herself innumerable times before.

It was strange; she used to feel substantial enough — sometimes too substantial, earthbound and perplexingly unable to catch the zephyrs that bore him so easily along. But since her diagnosis, she’d felt less and less so, and that night, it was as if she were made of paper and blown glass, as if a single spark, a single mislaid touch would disintegrate her — as if she were already almost gone.

Mulder, though — he was warm blood, solid bone, yielding flesh — his vitality, instead of being impossibly separate, seemed suddenly contagious. Something dormant inside her came awake all at once.

She leaned forward, slid her arms around his waist, kissed him — shivered as he inhaled against her — closed her eyes and whispered, breath just barely forming sound: “Please.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He bent to kiss her and it was like the first time all over again — a sweetness, a roughness, a fresh revelation. Lost in the sensation, she was aware only of a sense of falling slowly, of landing utterly safely in softness and then there she was, lying in his arms, his delicious warm weight the only real thing in the world.

_Yes_, he answered wordlessly, parting her lips with his tongue, so gently. His hands stroked her back, her arms, her sides, sending delicious waves of sensation through her. _God,_ how could something so slow, so soft, cause such a surging, swirling ache inside? Eventually he broke the kiss and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms all the way around her, nudging at her collarbone, burrowing his head between her breasts. “Scully,” he sighed, almost directly into her heart; she nearly wept to hear it. He kissed her again, and she couldn’t bear to open her eyes — if this was a dream, she didn’t want to know.

A thought crossed her mind — _your poor knees_ — at the same time something similar seemed to occur to him. He leaned her backward a bit — _so, the couch then, after all_ — but only to give himself space to stand. As he stood, he pulled her with him, and now her head lay against his chest where she could hear the rapid beat thrumming beneath his ribs. She slid her arms underneath the back of his T-shirt, surprised at the smoothness of his skin, pleased by his sharp intake of breath.

Keeping her anchored with one arm, he ran his other hand through her hair, then rested it at her neck. She felt the rumble of his voice against her ear.

“Scully … are you sure?”

Fuck. Why did he have to ask? Was he actually _unwilling_?

He shifted and she felt him hard against her — evidence that he wasn’t _too _reluctant, since it seemed he might burst right through the fly of his jeans. What, then? She forced herself to meet his eyes; the specter of tomorrow’s meeting loomed, so what did she have to lose?

She could see desire uppermost — but also there was fear there, fear of her frailty, manifested in the way he cupped her face as if trying not to knock tiny feathers off a butterfly’s wings.

“You’re afraid,” she said, wonderingly.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You could only do that by saying no.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him to her, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. He groaned, wrapping her in a tight embrace, rocking his hips to get more contact with his straining erection.

She started to lose her balance a little, and then she was off of her feet entirely — he had scooped her up in his arms. She held on, tucking her head against his shoulder as he carried her like a groom bearing his bride across the threshold.

He put her down carefully, next to the bed. It was unmade, but smelled good — bar soap, shaving cream, the stuff he used in his hair, and just … him. The only light was what reached them from the living room; she could see planes and angles, curves and faint colors, and if he turned his head the right way — just there — the changeable depth of his eyes.

For a moment, she felt desperate and strange, wanted to tear their clothes off and go at it before anybody could change their mind. But Mulder had other ideas, and apparently, he was planning to take his time.

He started with himself, and she realized that it was because he didn’t want her to feel too vulnerable. He took off his T-shirt, tossed it on a chair nearby. She sighed, touched his bare chest with both hands; he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back a little, resting his hands on her hips as she explored his upper body, sliding over his heated skin, scraping through hair, pressing against muscle. When she brought her hands to the waistband of his jeans, and paused there, he opened his eyes again and nodded, then leaned in for another soft but sure kiss, a sweep of his tongue over hers promising more to come.

She undid the button and slid the zipper down, grazing his hardness through the fabric of his boxers with her knuckle. He shivered, letting his forehead rest against her, as she started working jeans and boxers off his narrow hips at the same time. She finally got them down far enough to let his cock spring free, and couldn’t help the low sound of appreciation she made. He choked back a laugh that might’ve embarrassed her at any other time, but she could hear a little bashfulness in it, so she just shook her head, half-smiling, and let herself get a good look at what she’d only speculated about before. She reached to touch it, taking hold near the base and sliding upward with barely-there friction. He gasped, fingers digging into her sides, and she was gratified by the moisture she felt at the tip; _god, he must want this almost as much as I do_, she thought, spreading it over the head with her thumb.

“Scully,” he groaned, “You gotta — you gotta stop that if you want — anything — else to happen.”

She wondered how long it had been for him, then banished the thought. _Who cares, he’s here with me now_.

She bent to push his jeans the rest of the way off, letting him step out of them and kick them aside — and there he was, naked in front of her. Her eyes swept him, head to toe, relishing the sight — how glorious he was, how beautiful! Oh, how she loved him. She felt like crying, but managed not to, mostly because he would almost certainly misinterpret her tears. She licked her lips, aware of the shallow way she’d been breathing, the tightness in her chest, the tingling anticipation of him finally, finally touching her.

He captured her mouth in a deep, deliberate kiss, letting her run her hands all over his back, his ass, his thighs, everywhere she could reach. It was a surprise when she felt cool air against her skin, her shirt being lifted from the waist and pulled up over her head. She leaned back to let him remove it, then stood swaying slightly while his hands stroked over her upper body, down her arms, up her spine, across her stomach, feather light over her shoulders — everywhere but on her aching breasts, where she wanted them most.

“Scully,” he breathed again, reverent and full of need, and the sound of her name like that sent a fluttering through her entire body to her center. 

“Please,” she whispered again, and he moved at last to her bra, unhooking it and sliding it off her with an almost unbearable scrape of lace trim across her sensitive nipples. He took in the sight with a feverish glow in his eyes, reaching up to cup her breast with one hand while the other slid around her back and pulled her close against him. Heavenly, the feel of so much of his skin in contact with hers — and it only made her want more. She struggled to wedge her hand between their bodies to unbutton her pants, but he stayed her wrist.

“Let me,” he whispered, then maneuvered them both so that he was standing behind her. She reached her arms up over her head to lace her fingers behind his neck, giving him unfettered access to her body. God, had she ever trusted anyone else this way? Had she ever even wanted to?

He stroked her sides, then breasts, then sides, again and again, and just when she couldn’t take any more, he draped his body over hers, loosed the button at her waist, and slid his hand inside so slowly that she could feel each tooth of the zipper disengage as he went. His fingers stroked lightly against the smooth fabric along her center; his groan as he encountered the wetness there was loud in her ear. He drew back only enough to repeat the action, this time reaching underneath everything, sliding into the slickness, the damp curls, and dipping one long finger at last into her. It felt so good, she couldn’t help laughing a little — then gasping as he traced the path back up to her clit, stroking, circling, teasing her into a state of utter breathlessness. She didn’t think she could come, in this position — the effort of staying upright, even supported almost entirely by him, was too much — but she felt she could stay right here, indefinitely, and let him just … keep on doing … that …

She whimpered in protest when he moved his hand away, but in the next moment her knees almost went out from under her: “Wanna see you,” he said against her neck, in a voice made rough by need. Without letting go of her, he helped her out of her pants and underwear and then turned her to face him. His eyes were huge in the near-dark, and so full of emotion that it almost hurt her to look at them. One hand went up to cradle his jaw; her other arm wrapped around him, low on his hips, pressing his lower body to hers.

He bent to kiss her and it was like the first time all over again — a sweetness, a roughness, a fresh revelation. Lost in the sensation, she was aware only of a sense of falling slowly, of landing utterly safely in softness and then there she was, lying in his arms, his delicious warm weight the only real thing in the world.

His hands, oh his hands — all over, everywhere at once, tracing intersecting circles, ellipses, arcs across her body. His lips, his darting tongue, even his teeth — discovering and marking new places he’s never tasted before. Her own hands roaming, skimming, kneading, lightly scraping, drawing such sounds from him as she’d never imagined she would get to hear.

And then a moment of complete stillness when he returned his hand to her center, slipping two fingers deep inside, their mutual silence broken by her surprised, ecstatic “Oh!” and his answering groan as he began sliding in and out so slowly she thought she might scream. She needed more — more of something. Her hands left his hair and went to her breasts; his hips seemed to move involuntarily, lazily rubbing his erection against her as he watched her pinch her nipples, much harder than he’d done. 

“Jesus, Scully …” he breathed, his arm going still, fingers poised for another slow thrust.

“No — don’t stop —”

“Uh-uh,” he said, withdrawing his hand as he shifted onto her more fully. He started moving down her body, each kiss the epicenter of another burst of fizzy warmth through her veins. She was slow to realize what he was doing until he was almost there, his mouth traveling past her belly button, her clit throbbing almost painfully in anticipation — and a terrible thought struck her: What if she tasted strange? What if the medication, the treatments, had altered something in her chemistry, made her sour or bitter on his tongue?

She grabbed at his head, trying to stop him; he looked up, mystified.

“You don’t — you don’t like this?”

She shivered from the heat of his breath on her sex.

“No — it’s — I’ve just —”

He was patient, curious, his thumbs rubbing soft little circles on her peaked hipbones. He rested his head on her thigh, his lips half an inch from contact; inhaled her scent deeply, shuddering on the exhale.

She tried again.

“I’m not sure you should — what if —”

She could tell he still didn’t know what she meant; she was on the verge of weeping in frustration. Then, as if to pass the time — eyes locked on hers and dark with lust — he brought his fingers to his mouth, fingers slick with the evidence of her arousal — and licked them clean.

Whatever words she’d been planning to say had vanished.

“Can I?” he asked, nuzzling at the juncture of her thigh, nose barely grazing the very outer edge of her labia.

“Please,” she managed to whisper, lips parched, heart racing.


	3. Chapter 3

Mulder raised his head a little, waiting till he got her nod of confirmation, then turned his obsessive focus to the banquet before him.

He stroked down one inner thigh with the back of his hand, and as if he’d said “Open sesame,” her legs spread apart, bent at the knee. She’d never felt so exposed in her life.

“Ohhhhh, Scully …” he sighed, relishing the sight, as he slid his hands around her sides to grip her ass, his arms effectively pinning her in place. He licked his lips, savoring the moment, and she almost laughed — it was like that cartoon Dagwood with a sandwich — but at the first touch of his tongue to her swollen, aching sex, the laugh turned into a keening moan that obliterated all conscious thought.

He paid attention, her partner.

His growls of hunger and satisfaction as he traced her folds — his nimble tongue, his soft and urgent lips, the sounds of him humming against her, swallowing as if drinking from a sacred fountain — were all in service of her pleasure.

She tried to keep her eyes open, but eventually it was impossible — she felt her body begin to climb, and climb — faster, higher — _oh god — oh Mulder!_ — and then she was in freefall, seemingly forever, in a weightless place beyond the reach of gravity.

She came back to herself by degrees, her throat raw, her skin so sensitive that Mulder’s touch skating across her abdomen made her flinch a little, then press closer to him. She felt his heartbeat against her side and gulped to keep tears from falling; Christ, that was the last thing either of them needed.

She struggled to speak — wanted so badly to tell him how amazing, how wonderful, how adored she felt — but the only thing that came out was his name. She turned toward him — maybe a mistake; face to face, it was just too intense. His hand soothed all along her body, from the nape of her neck to her knee and back; he asked nothing, demanded nothing, but his eyes — she could drown there, she knew, if she didn’t start to swim.

“I want —” she rasped.

“What, baby?” His voice was dark honey, and she shivered with fresh desire.

“I want —” she tried again, not sure what she meant to say — only that she _wanted_.

Fuck _words_. She surged against him, pushing him onto his back and rolling on top of him, sliding her wet heat along his impossible hardness.

It seemed they were both beyond words. Difficult to tell whose groan was louder, but she felt his rattling her bones.

As she sat up slightly, he took one of her breasts in each hand, pinched and rolled the nipples between his thumb and forefinger, tightly like she’d shown him — her hips jerked reflexively, putting extra pressure on his cock for a brief second.

“Oh, FUCK Scully!” he panted, eyes squeezing shut.

Enough of the teasing. She knew what she was here for. 

She straddled him, kneeling, and took his length in her hands, stroking it, coating it with her own slip, enjoying his strangled-sounding moans, the slight twinge of pain as his fingers dug into her ribs.

Then she rose up, positioned herself over him, and guided him inside. She sank down on him slowly, slowly, relishing the sensation, throwing her head back, eyes squeezed shut — _“Ahhhhhh, god!”_ — the words forced out of her on a harshly ecstatic sigh.

When she’d finally taken him all the way in — when they were fully joined, a completed circuit — she willed her eyes open, and the sight of Mulder’s face — pure lust, pure love — caused her heart to stutter and her inner muscles to flex. He pushed up into her, an involuntary movement that reached some spot deep within and almost made her come undone again. She sucked in a deep breath, holding very still till the moment passed; then she braced her hands on his shoulders and relaxed just enough to be able to start moving on him. Up, till he was on the verge of slipping out of her; back down with a rocking of her hips to reach that far-inside place once more. Again, again, in a steady, unhurried rhythm that allowed them both time to feel it all, feel everything. 

His hands on her were deliciously warm; one cupped her breast while the other slid around her back, tethering her to him, urging her onward. She let her own hands roam, bent to kiss him when she could reach, got goosebumps when he scratched gently at her spine. She wanted to make it last, but before too long, her deliberate pace started to get sloppy as she could feel him get closer.

“Scully — I’m — oh Jesus _Christ_ —”

Gasping, she realized she was almost there again herself. Unbelievable.

“Wait for me,” she whispered, reaching between them to touch herself, roughly this time, urgently, as he watched — and who could tell whether it was her sharp and sudden orgasm squeezing him tighter or merely the sight of her making herself come that pushed him over the edge, his whole body convulsing, her name the only word he could say.

The sound of ragged breathing, the smell of sweat and sex, the feel of heated skin against skin — for a long time, she lay on his chest, knees drawn up at his sides, face pressed into the crook of his neck as he held her tightly. Nothing else in the world existed then — not her illness, her loneliness, her fear. It was this, _this_, that she had wanted — _this_ which had come alive in her tonight, _this_ that was real.

“Oh Scully,” he crooned into her hair at last. She nodded, too overcome to speak and suddenly shy about meeting his eyes. She moved to let him slip out of her, suddenly so exhausted that she felt a little dizzy; it seemed the room was spinning slowly around them. _I’ll get up in a minute,_ she thought —_ just need a second to rest. _

He nuzzled at her, placing soft kisses in her hair as he spooned her, one arm lying heavily across her middle. _Thank you_, she murmured into the pillow, sleep-drunk and slurring so much that he couldn’t understand what she’d said. He started to ask, but she was asleep before he’d gotten a word out, and seconds later, so was he.

The room was quiet; for a time, they slept.


	4. Chapter 4

It was still dark when she woke up, heart racing and skin dewy with sweat, surfacing out of a nightmare. This one wasn’t a screamer, thank god, but it was deeply unsettling — she had been in a place with all stainless-steel surfaces and bright lights, alone but feeling watched. Not just watched — ridiculed and mocked by someone just out of sight. She’d been looking for something, urgently, her body oddly sludgy and slow to move; all the while, there had been silence except for a menacing hum of machinery in the background. She’d fought her way from the dream by sheer will, and then had lain there confused and out of sorts for a long minute, wondering where in the hell she was.

_Mulder’s, I’m at Mulder’s_, she’d finally remembered. And closely on the heels of that: _Oh god …_

Because she wasn’t in the bed alone; she was back-to-back with him, the heat of his bare skin like a sun-warmed rock she lay upon. Wide-eyed in the dimness, she held still as a wave of remembered sensation washed over her: She felt his phantom touch on her, heard again the sounds she’d made, saw in her mind a lush kaleidoscopic rendering of the things they’d done. She bit her lip to keep from moaning — equal parts arousal and giddy mortification. Her thighs felt sticky, her tongue was dry; she needed to get to the bathroom, preferably without waking him. Definitely without waking him. Whatever the morning was going to bring, she didn’t want it to start right this second.

She slid out of bed by careful inches, then tiptoed naked to the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light. She used the facilities, then went to wash her hands — and the sight of herself in the mirror actually took her breath away.

She stood there, her heartbeat pounding horribly, thickly, in her throat — she looked like a wraith. Her hair was a rat’s nest, her skin was unhealthily pale but for the dark shadows under her eyes, her bones stood out sharply where once there had been softness covering them.

Was this what he’d seen tonight?

Was this why he hadn’t been the one to reach out and cross the line between them?

_No, no, _she argued with herself. _He wanted it, he kissed me back, he was hard immediately — he_

How many times had she had to say “please”?

She closed her eyes, dizzy again, remembering how he’d looked at her — that burning intensity, but also what she was sure was love. He loved her. He’d wanted her. He wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t want it himself unless —

Unless it was some sort of favor, granting a dying woman’s wish.

_That’s fucking crazy, this is _Mulder_, he would never. _

Then why hadn’t he even kissed her, ever, before?

_I’m panicking,_ she thought, gripping the sink so hard her knuckles went white. _This isn’t fair to him. I’m sick and I’m feeling vulnerable and exposed so I’m pushing him away, that’s all this is. I’ll just — go back in there, get under the covers, warm up, it’s fine, I’ll be fine. And then when I can get a good look at him —_

She thought of his eyes, the way they could never hide emotion — and some poisoned and frightened part of her brain supplied a picture of them, full of regret, which he would chivalrously pretend wasn’t there. He loved her, in the way that he always had but no more, and so he’d mask that regret for as long as it took — which, considering the the news she was sure she was about to hear at the oncology team meeting mere hours from now, probably wouldn’t be all that long.

At that, it was as if she’d been stabbed but couldn’t scream; her skin broke out in gooseflesh and she cringed, her mouth a silent rictus of pain. Dry soundless sobs wracked her body over and over until at last the storm had passed and she stood straight again, all the heat and passion of the night spent and nothing but cool newly-hardened glass left inside.

She knew now: She couldn’t face him, positively could not. Not before this meeting — she needed all of her strength — and not without her suit, her armor on.

She had to get out. 

She crept back into his bedroom, furtively gathered her clothes, dressed in the dark while holding her breath. Mercifully, he was asleep —

_Or pretending to be_, whispered the poison flower that had bloomed within. _Letting me out gracefully_.

_Fuck off,_ she snarled at that voice. _I’m letting HIM out gracefully. I have a very difficult day ahead and I need solitude, not a sleepover. _She’d do him a favor, pretend this never happened, and everything would be fine.

_He’ll get over it,_ she thought again as she pulled his front door closed, locked it, and slipped quietly down the hall. _I already have_.


	5. Chapter 5

All this time later, alone under the light of a nearly-full moon on the front porch of place called Comanche Ranch — glum, pissed off, and wishing forlornly that her recall of that night were less detailed — she’s just about to say the hell with it and go to bed when she hears what has to be Mulder’s heavy footfall coming around the side of the building.

Sure enough, there he is. What a sight — completely bedraggled, sweat-drenched T-shirt and shorts, wet hair, breathing like he’s just run ten miles. Which, being Mulder, he might actually have done. He sees her standing at the top of the steps and slows to a walk, going from a neutral expression to a sneer as she watches.

“How was your date?” he huffs, one soaked forearm wiping ineffectively at the rivers of sweat on his face.

_Fuck you_, she thinks, and he looks like he heard her say it out loud.

“You mean: The meal shared with several members of local law enforcement, whose help we need to solve this case, discussing subject matter which is in _your_ area of expertise — _not_ mine — that I just fumbled through, incredibly awkwardly and uselessly, while making lame excuses as to your whereabouts?”

He snorts, looking away from her and leaning into a stretch. “Sure, yeah, whatever the kids’re calling it these days.” Standing straight again, he grabs the sweatshirt he’d left, towels off with it and tosses it past her in the general direction of their room doors. Ugh.

“Mulder —” Her tone is a warning, which he plows right over.

“I just figured I wouldn’t see you till tomorrow morning — thought you’d show up at the scene in Weller’s truck, wearing today’s clothes.” Nonchalantly stretching some more, looking up at the sky.

Her anger transforms in an instant into white-hot rage. How fucking _dare_ he insinuate — the man who flirts with every woman on earth like it’s how he fucking breathes, even when she’s standing right there. The one who treats her like a spinster aunt himself, but flips out if another man shows the slightest awareness that she’s even female, much less attractive.

She tries to control her voice, but it’s damn near a shout. “Oh, WHAT A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT!”

He finally meets her eyes again, and the needling condescension is mixed with anger. “Yeah? What’s bullshit is the way you two have been acting the whole time we’ve been here — you practically threw yourself at him! You obviously didn’t need me there tonight so I left you to it. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Enough. _Enough. _He wants a fight, he’ll get one.

“You know what, Mulder? You pull this jealous-boyfriend routine every time there is a human male involved in an investigation, and I’m sick of it!” His face is hard, his eyes narrowed; he takes a step toward her. Is he trying to _intimidate_ her? Well, screw that. She has the height advantage, for once, and she is done with this.

Acid-soaked words tumble out of her, burning through the cage she’s kept them in. “One _pity fuck_ three years ago doesn’t entitle you to—”

The terrifically loud _crack_ of his open palm on the flat wood of the stair rail reverberates around them.

“IS THAT WHAT YOU THOUGHT IT WAS?” he roars, and she takes an involuntary step backward, suddenly aware that this isn’t any ordinary argument — this is The argument, the fight that’s been coming for years.

He knows it too, and her stepping backward only makes him more aggressive. He starts up the stairs, and she can’t help it — she backs up again. He stops, two steps from the top. Their eyes are almost level. Ashamed of retreating, she goes on the attack, biting words off and spitting them at him.

“What else could it have been? I had _cancer_. I was _dying_. You had a thousand opportunities but you never made any kind of move until you were sure you wouldn’t have to deal with the afterm—“

“SHUT UP.” The words are as loud and flat, as harsh and stinging as a slap, and silence her just as effectively. “You. Shut. Up.”

A spark of genuine fear flashes through her. His breath drags in and out of him, his fists are clenched, and he takes the last two steps up in one stride. She backs away again, trying instinctively to put distance between them, and finds herself flat against the corner post of the porch railing, with him between her and any escape route. She assesses the situation — they’re four feet off the ground, an uncomfortable but not impossible distance to jump, assuming she could vault the rail before he got to her; if she tries to get past him, his wingspan on this tiny porch would be impossible to evade — _oh shit_.

But he keeps more than an arm’s length away, unclenching his fists, hands at his thighs, struggling for calm. He meets her eyes, and it’s enough — she knows he’s not going to hurt her, would never. Still, she remains on full alert in the charged silence.

Finally, low and raw, each word distinct and full of pain, he says, “I wanted you before that night, and I wanted you more after.” 

Her mouth goes so dry she can barely get out a whisper: “What?”

He closes his eyes, rubs his face with both hands. “Do you know how many nights since then I’ve woken up from a dream with the sheets a mess and the taste of your pussy on my tongue?”

Her heart might actually have stopped. She puts a hand up to check, and it comes galloping back to life. She’s suddenly, almost painfully aware of a throbbing at her center, and a surge of wetness there.

He opens his eyes again, his gaze boring into hers as he continues, “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve _jacked off”_ — almost shouting the last two words, he palms himself; she inhales sharply at the gesture, and the bulge underneath his hand — “imagining I’m _buried_ inside you?”

She couldn’t speak if her life depended on it. Her entire body feels like it’s been set aflame, she’s radiating heat, surely he feels it.

“But you _left_!” She flinches. He drops his hands back to his sides, snapped out of his reverie. “You left! You fucking coward! You snuck out in the middle of the night and you never talked about it again and you acted like it never even happened!” He’s breathing hard again, his teeth bared in a snarl. “And I let you! I thought it was what you needed so I _let you_!” She jumps again at the volume, the hurt, the anger in his voice.

And now he does close the distance between them, but still he’s not touching her. He grips the banister on either side of her, enclosing but not exactly trapping her, leaning to within an inch of her face. The tang of his sweat surrounds her, mixing with the scent of her own fearful arousal. She feels drunk, stoned on it — there’s nothing in the world but Mulder all around her, and within her nothing but this insane rush of desire.

His breath is hot on her skin as he says, “I waited and waited. I thought you’d come back to me. But I’m _sick_ of waiting.” It’s almost a threat. She can’t figure out how to respond, or even if she should; she breathes him in, feels she might die if he pulls back.

Her eyes have slid shut. “Scully,” he demands.

She opens them again and — oh God, there’s everything, it’s Mulder’s soul looking back — the agony of what he thought was her rejection, the ferocity of his love for her … the clear intent to claim her. Here, tonight. It’s darkly, startlingly, impossibly exciting; her fight-or-flight impulses are cycling so rapidly that she’s near paralyzed.

“If. you. don’t. want. me — say it now. _Say it now_, Scully,” he orders. A drop of his sweat lands on her collarbone and slides down into her bra, trailing fire. He puts his cheek alongside hers, teeth clenched, gritting the words out: _“Say it. say it. say it.”_

“Unnh …” she moans indistinctly, trying to remember how to form speech.

“Because I’m about to take what’s mine.”


	6. Chapter 6

Only the pillar behind her keeps her upright — she is undone. This can’t be happening, but it is, it is, and yes he’s going to — and she wants, oh yes she does —

“Take —” she rasps. 

He leans back; she misses him fiercely. Forces herself with what little strength she has left to meet his eyes, to say, “Take what’s yours.”

There’s a millisecond in which a high-voltage current leaps between them:

_are you sure ~ yes i’m sure_

And then his mouth is on hers, one hand sunk deep into her hair, the other completely covering her breast. Her arms go around him, clinging like a drowning woman; she’s pressed so tightly to him, she’s not sure if her feet are even on the ground anymore. His hand lifts and she makes a sound of protest but it’s only a second before it returns, shoved roughly up underneath her shirt and bra, skin on skin.

He kneads the sensitive flesh, then flicks his thumbnail across her nipple, hard, and it’s as if there’s a live wire between there and her clit — her hips buck against him, her head rocks backward and she cries a startled “Oh!” into the night air. He wedges his knees between her thighs, slides his mouth down to the spot just behind her ear, and does it again — and this time when she convulses she makes direct contact with his cock. He bites down with a grunt that she can feel in her spine, then licks where he’s bitten. They kiss, sloppily, urgently, every time their travels over each other’s bodies come close enough to. Her hands are all over him, anywhere she can reach — his hair, his neck, his shoulders, digging into his ass — and when he flicks her other nipple, she shrieks into his mouth while her own nails reflexively scrape little crescents into the skin of his back just above his hipbones.

His shirt is becoming a problem. It’s wet and heavy and it’s in her fucking way. She starts to yank it up and he growls, low in his throat; he keeps her pinned where she is with his lower body and tears it off, dropping it at their feet. She lunges for his chest, not caring where she makes contact — licking, nibbling, sucking, as he runs his hands around her waist, and then suddenly she’s airborne, crushed against him again with her shirt rucked up under her armpits, no choice but to wrap her legs around him as he grabs the backs of her thighs, swinging her around and heading, she knows, for one of their rooms.

It’s only two of Mulder’s long strides to his door. He lets her slide down his body, every nerve sparking, and presses her into the wall while he yanks the key out of his pocket and jams it into the lock. She feels helpless, swept up in him, and part of her brain keeps trying to tell her she should — should what? Tap the brakes? Talk rationally about this? Make a list of pros and cons? — but it gets shouted down, giving in along with the rest of her to this astonishing pleasure. He shoulders the door open, propelling her into the room. She stumbles, tangled in his feet, and he lifts her again, pressing his lips to her neck, trying to pull her bra strap and shirt off her shoulder with his teeth. His knees make contact with the bed. He frees one hand to yank the covers to the floor all at once, then puts her down on it — not gently — grabbing her shirt and pulling it the rest of the way off along with her bra.

The look in his eyes is something savage — she might be afraid if she felt any less wild herself.

He grabs the waistband of her shorts and growls, “Off.” She lifts up to let him pull them down and fling them away, then watches with shivering thirst as he sheds the last of his own clothing.

“Jesus,” she mutters as he straightens again, the first actual word she’s managed in awhile. He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh, but when she manages to tear her eyes away from his erection for a second, he’s regarding her with anything but amusement. He nods, indicating she should move backward, and she does, unable — and unwilling — to resist doing whatever he wants.

She leans back a little, supporting her weight with her arms behind her, thrusting her breasts toward him. Then, struck by a wanton impulse, she brings one knee up, exposing herself to him; she can smell her own arousal, and knows he can see how ready she is for him. He inhales sharply through gritted teeth, grasping his cock and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. The sight of him like that — fighting for self-control — is enough to make her wonder if she could come without even being touched.

In the next instant, she ceases to wonder anything at all as he drops to his knees on the rug, pressing her thighs apart with his hands and going straight for her center with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck!” she breathes toward the ceiling, half-sobbing at the contact, grabbing uselessly at the sheets until one of his hands finds hers and almost shoves it on her breast.

“Yeah,” he exhales into her, guiding her to stroke, to pinch, to knead.

Christ, what he’s doing to her — _his tongue, oh jesus _— she was so ready, and she’s so close, just a few more laps on her clit and she’ll —

Her moans become a breathless gasp when he thrusts two fingers inside her at once. Her upper body rockets off the bed, then collapses back down as he holds her there, sliding in and out of her wetness in an agonizingly irregular rhythm while his tongue keeps working, faster now, and she wants to hold out, wants to make it last, but he’s in charge here and when he catches her clit against his upper lip and sucks — at the same time as he presses up inside her with his fingers — it’s over, almost embarrassingly quickly, the sun going supernova behind her eyelids, wordless sounds of ecstasy issuing from deep within.

When she finally regains a little consciousness, she opens her eyes to find him standing astride her, one hand roaming over her body, the other stroking his cock. He tilts his head, taking in the sight of her with wolfish hunger, and she shudders through another orgasmic aftershock in anticipation of what happens next. _Anything, everything_ —

“Taste me,” he says, so low it’s almost felt instead of heard.

It’s an order, not a request.

She nods rapidly, tongue darting out to moisten her lips. Christ, she wants to — how many times has she imagined —

She pushes herself up to a sitting position and lowers her head to take him into her mouth — her groan an echo of his. He steadies himself with a hand on each shoulder, his hold firm but not pushing or guiding her. _Taste me_, he’d said — so she does, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock, licking and swallowing the drops of moisture there, tracing the underside with the pointed tip of her tongue, taking him deep just once —

“Stop,” he says, still low but with a strained quality that makes her smile with vixenish pride. His grip on her tells her he doesn’t want her to make him come this way, not this time; he has other plans. She releases him and he pulls her up, kissing her again. Their mingled flavors are almost too much for her to take — she moans, need blossoming fiery in her chest.

His hand threads into her hair again, and it isn’t sharp or sudden, but she realizes with a gasp that he’s pulled it tight; her scalp tingles, waves of shocked pleasure cascade through her. He growls, nuzzling behind her ear, using his hold on her hair to keep her where he wants her. She resists just enough to feel the tug, to show him she likes this — and then he does pull it sharply, drawing another harsh gasp, driving her fingernails into his shoulders and another electric shock to her center.

She’s not exactly sure how it happens — some sort of sexual ju-jitsu, of _course_ he would be like this — but suddenly she’s on her back again with him on top of her. She squirms, trying to get some leverage, mostly out of remembered habit; in previous relationships, she’s been used to taking the lead.

“Uh uh,” he shakes his head, shifting to cover her more completely. He’s kissing, licking, nibbling his way down her neck, across her collarbone, over her shoulders. She can’t fight him, doesn’t want to, wants — _ohhhhhhhhh, just that_ — his mouth on her breast, teeth scraping her nipple, first one side, then the other, his tongue everywhere while his hips rock purposefully but slowly, his cock hard against her folds, coating himself in her juices. It’s unbearable, what he’s doing, _unbearable _—

“Oh god, Mulder, please —”

He stills, then puts his mouth to her ear, voice gravelly and utterly serious: “I’m gonna fuck you now, Scully.”

“Ahh, fuuuuck,” she almost sobs, her clit throbbing so hard it hurts, right on the edge and he won’t let her come yet — she nearly begs him to finish her off again first.

“Uh huh,” he pants, drawing back so he can look her in the eye. “You are mine,” he takes her hand, kisses it softly, then grips her firmly at the wrist, positioning her arm above her head without breaking eye contact. “And I’m going to fuck you.”

If she hadn’t already surrendered completely, that would have done it.

_“Mulder — ohchristyes —_”

It’s breathy and all runs together indistinctly but he’s smart, her partner — he figures it out.

He raises up a little, leans heavily on the hand holding her wrist. She winces, but feels herself getting wetter. Wedging her legs farther apart with his knees, he takes himself in hand and pushes into her — no need to go slowly, she’s so slick and so ready and —

oh jesus she’s seeing stars — it isn’t _possible_ for anything to feel this fucking good —

His breathing is ragged, his eyes the darkest green she’s ever seen. It’s a pity she can’t keep hers open as he starts moving — burying himself to the hilt, pulling back, sinking all the way down again — and both of them moaning, sighing, gasping each time he can’t go any further.

She forgets he’s restraining her and goes to use her left hand, only to find it immobilized. Her eyes fly open at his rough chuckle — a reminder that he’s in control. He kisses her fiercely, growling when she nips not-quite-lightly at his delectable lower lip. Her free hand rakes through his hair, raising goosebumps on his back which she soothes away with a firm tracing of her fingers, then finishes with a deliberate scratch that makes him shudder all over. He drops his head to her chest, sucking and tonguing at one spot near her collarbone — it’s right on the line between pleasure and pain, but god, what sweet torture —

He starts grinding against her at the end of each thrust and it’s such a goddamn tease — he gets so deep inside, but he’s just nudging the edge of her clit with his pubis — close as she is, she’ll never come this way, it’s driving her crazy.

Quickly, she bends her legs at the knee and pulls them up as high as she can against his sides, opening herself wider and angling her hips; she pushes back on the next stroke and almost screams at the contact. It must have done something good for him, too, because he speeds up, mumbling _Scully, Scully, oh FUCK yeah_ as she rocks up to meet him and then — like a lightning strike, hitting just the right place — a brilliant flash and she’s gone, her body quaking, her pussy clenching around him, no idea what she’s howling, it’s not even words. She’s still in the middle of it when he drives into her one last time and she feels him pulsing inside her, spilling into her as he bellows something that sounds like _mine, mine, mine_ into the place just behind her ear.

He finally pulls out and collapses on her, spent, the both of them trembling and hoarse, neither wanting to move apart. He strokes her hair, more gently than he’s touched her this night; she makes a contented noise and he hums in response — they are ok, even if they’re not ready to look each other in the eye yet. They breathe in tandem, and agree wordlessly to rest, just rest for now.


	7. Chapter 7

When her heart finally slows to near-normal, and she can feel the sweat drying on her skin as she starts to drift off, she remembers she should go to the bathroom — it only takes one UTI to learn that lesson, no medical degree required. She starts to disengage her limbs from his. He resists a little, heavy and close to sleep as he no doubt is, and she whispers, “Bathroom. I’ll be right back.” It’s a little disturbing, how it comes out like she’s asking permission, and more so how he murmurs assent like he’s granting it; she sits up too abruptly, trying to cover her tone with assertiveness.

She feels exposed, suddenly, and doesn’t want to just walk around naked. She reaches for something to put on, realizing as she gropes around futilely that she has no idea where her clothes got thrown; there certainly wasn’t time to fold anything neatly and put it aside. Mulder’s suit from earlier that day is crumpled on the armchair by the bed — that’ll do. She extracts his dress shirt from the pile and pulls it on, buttoning three buttons in the center, relishing the way she’s enveloped in his clean daytime smell. The shirttail is plenty long enough to cover her — it comes nearly to her knees — and the sleeves are comically long even though they’re still rolled up from when he last wore the shirt, sans jacket in the steaming afternoon.

She sneaks a look backward, expecting him to be asleep or at least dozing, only to see him eyeing her territorially, like a lion after a feed: sated at the moment but still watchful, still vital, still dangerous. Something inside her responds, electrically; she can’t suppress a shuddery breath. He notices, blinks slowly, looking somehow even more feral, then lets his eyes slide closed, releasing her at last.

_What in the holy hell was that?_, she thinks, as she gets up and makes her way across the room on aching, shaky legs.

She clicks the lock behind her and uses the toilet, wishing the door were less flimsy and there was a little more distance between them — no privacy in these charming old B&B places, where the ensuite bathrooms were always added haphazardly, many decades after the original build.

But then she stands before the mirror to get a good look at herself, and frankly, she’s thrilled. Her color is high, her eyes sparkly and still a little wild, her hair tousled — she looks like she’s just been fucked, which hot damn, she certainly has. She rakes her fingers through the hair at her temples, almost laughing aloud, when she notices a complicated-looking shadow on her wrist.

She looks closer and can’t help a sudden sharp inhale — there are four faint purple marks on her arm just above her hand, and a darker, rounded one on the inside of her wrist between the radius and ulna. Her mind flashes to Mulder holding that arm above her head, gripping her tight as she writhed beneath him. She meets her own eyes in the mirror, a little shocked, then scans downward to the place on her chest where the shirt has fallen open almost to her breast.

“Ho-ly _shit_ —”

It’s much louder than she meant to say it, and she hears a mild commotion out in the bedroom. Mulder’s voice drifts to her, borderline panicky: “Scully? Are you OK?”

She manages a thin, reedy “I’m fine …”

She’s staring at herself, mind racing. Was this out of anger? Is it _punishment_? For a half-second, she’s wildly unsure, and then the word comes to her, unbidden: _marked_.

He’s marked her, making sure she can’t forget it this time, can’t pretend it didn’t happen. The thought sends her pulse pounding through her, makes her a little dizzy even as the certainty grounds her. She hears his feet hit the floor, knows he’s rustling around and might come flying through the door any second.

“It’s OK — I’m fine!”

“Scully —” closer now. She turns out the light, leaving the full examination for later, and steps out to meet him before he breaks anything trying to get to her.


	8. Chapter 8

She comes out of the bathroom to find him almost at the door, and he looks a little crazy — hastily pulling on his boxers, clearly planning on bursting in on her — but her calm appearance quells his panic. She puts up her hand to say _stop_, and he does, mid stride. She says again, “I’m fine.” Gestures for him to sit on the bed, which he manages without looking backward; it’s only a few steps. She waits, making sure he’s going to stay there, then approaches him and stands just in front of his knees. Holding his gaze, she reaches over to turn on the bedside lamp; its 25-watt bulb would be no good for reading, but it seems bright in the darkness of the room.

A breath, two, three — then she slowly pushes the left sleeve of his shirt up her arm, puts her hand out, shows him the four parallel bruises just above her wrist. After a few quiet seconds, she turns it over to show him the single one on the other side. His body still, he exhales audibly, staring at the thumb-sized oval he’d pressed there. She lets him take her hand in both of his; he holds it carefully. After a second, he lets go, and she puts a finger under his chin, tipping it up a little, lifts her free hand to peel back the sagging starched collar to reveal the deep, angry-looking red smudge topped with teeth marks at her collarbone.

Low and quiet, he says “I didn’t mean to —”

“Mark me?” His eyes meet hers; he sees the dark flicker there, and it stops the guilt from creeping in. “I think you did.”

He silently acknowledges the truth of it, and doesn’t apologize. He’s letting her make the call as to what happens now, and with a feeling like stepping out onto an invisible bridge, trusting that it will hold her, she does.

She drapes her arms around his shoulders and leans her forehead to his. Closes her eyes, draws a shaky breath.

Says, so softly he has to be this close to hear it, “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t be more surprised. He pulls back to try to look at her, but her eyes are closed. “For — what?”

“For leaving.”

“Leaving? You’re _leaving_?”

“That morning.” She straightens, hiding behind closed eyelids, deep in the memory. Her arms are crossed over her chest now, binding herself tight. “I had an appointment with my oncology team and a counselor that day. So that was my excuse, that I gave myself for sneaking out. I knew what they were going to say, I knew what it meant, and I was scared.” She stops, lets out a trembling sigh. “But I was fucking _terrified_ of you.”

“_Me_? You were terrified of — after we — what we did? How we were together?” He blows out a breath, mystified, clearly unable to believe he was scarier than terminal cancer. “Scully — it was so, _so _good that night — how could you not have understood —”

There are tears in her voice, a November sky threatening rain, but she holds them back. “That made it worse. It was so good, and I wanted more. But I was afraid I’d look at you and see … regret.” The last word comes out choked, strangled with pain. He flinches like he’s been slapped. _No,_ he tries to say, but a shake of her head stops him.

“You never — I mean before that, you never tried — I practically _begged_ you to do it. Repeatedly. I actually _told_ you you could only hurt me by saying no.” She pauses, her breath hitching. “And if I’d seen you regret it.” She opens her eyes; it’s shockingly intimate after the way she’s closed herself off until this moment. “It would have broken me.”

He’s destroyed, can’t catch his breath, can’t form words until a spill of sudden hot tears down his face seems to melt something inside him and he croaks, “Ahh, Scully, didn’t you _know_ I loved you then?”

“Not —” she swallows, shakes her head. “Not like that.” Now her cheeks are wet too, and she gulps to try to keep from breaking down entirely.

“I _did_, though,” he says. “I _did_. I do. All this time. Still.” He palms his face dry roughly, green-gold eyes burning into her, tripping over himself to make sure she understands.

Her gaze flits away from his; suddenly she can’t take the intensity of his confession, the nakedness of it. They are both so raw, everything is too exposed. It was so much easier — not better, but easier — when she’d felt that she was made of unbreakable glass inside; it hurts, _oh it hurts_, to transform back into a being made of flesh and bone.

She uses the shirtsleeves to stop her tears, her body stiffening as she tries to pull herself together out of long-established protective habit — to create some space between them. He sees it, he knows what she’s doing, and for a desperate second she’s on the verge of fleeing. Again.

His voice is gentle but urgent, the voice of a man whose heart is fully open, fully on view. “Scully, please don’t — I can’t handle another three years of this. Please talk to me.”

Poised for flight, yes — but at the touch of his hands on her hips, she doesn’t flee, knows she can’t, knows she won’t. He was right — she is his, always has been.

The surprising thing is that he is also hers.

The realization seems to loosen all her joints and muscles at once. He wraps his arms around her middle and gently tugs her sideways onto his lap. To his evident surprise, she lets him, rests her cheek on his bare chest, tucks her arms tight between them. They breathe, silent together for long moments.

At last he says, “You’ve been carrying that around all this time?”

She nods, shrugs halfway.

“Christ, what you’re capable of — you’re so strong …” he murmurs into her hair. She can feel him grimacing, no doubt at the thought of her in pain, and another part of her melts from glass into soft vulnerable humanity. 

“I’m sorry too, Scully,” he starts again, taking up the earlier thread. “Because you not being sure of me — _that_ is my fault. I should never have left any room for doubt.” She stirs, wanting to argue, but he shakes his head and she stops, waiting. “I called you a coward out there, but I think maybe it started with me. I’m the coward — if I’d been honest earlier on, we might not have been in that situation in the first place.”

She lets this sink in, then, slightly muffled against his chest, repeats “‘If you’d been honest?”

“I would have told you I loved you, and not just as a partner or a friend. That’s what — I let you think that’s all it was, didn’t I?”

She nods, remembering how deeply convinced she was of the purely platonic nature of his love, even after he had shown her otherwise — and how badly that had hurt when she’d twisted it in her mind, alone and naked in his bathroom.

“It’s no excuse, but I was scared too. You meant — you mean everything to me, and I was — it was so fucking selfish. I think I thought it would hurt less to lose you, if I’d never known what it was like to love you.”


	9. Chapter 9

_“I thought it would hurt less to lose you, if I’d never known what it was like to love you.”_

She understands what he means, deeply and immediately. It’s how she felt too, although she never admitted that part before, even to herself — the way she closed herself off to him as if it would keep her from pain, when all it did was add a seeping, suffocating ache to the pain she was already in.

She untucks her arms and wraps them around him, listening to his steady heart; patient, not requiring an equivalent declaration from her, he answers by nuzzling her hair.

At last she says, “We almost did lose each other, so many times,” and the anguish underlying her words surprises her a little.

He acknowledges it with a quick squeeze. “We still might. This doesn’t constitute any kind of guarantee, not against — not with the work we do, the enemies we have.”

The work _we_ do, he’d said. The enemies _we_ have. She feels the last bit of glass inside of her morph back into nothing but her real self — her tender, breakable heart; her vulnerable, vibrant soul.

She leans back, looks him in the eye; the love and trust she sees there almost breaks her all over again.

“I know that,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I can’t go back, though. I can’t not do this with you anymore.”

His throat works a little; “Me either,” he finally manages.

“So let’s don’t.”

“Just like that?” he says with a tremulous smile.

“How else would we do it?” It’s an honest question — they’ve seen worlds change in an instant, entire bodies of knowledge become irrelevant overnight, the very fabric of reality seem to shift, and they’ve just … gone with it. Cataclysmic change, even when it’s invisible to outsiders, is their normal; why should this be any different?

He just shrugs, the smile still playing around his lips. She realizes something, suddenly, and it makes a little furrow appear between her eyebrows. His face freezes — he’s instantly wary, bracing for whatever this is. Fuck, she’s scaring him.

She cups his jaw with one hand, soothes gently with her thumb, says in her softest voice: “I just realized — you’ve said it several times, and I haven’t said it back.”

He blinks, unwilling to hazard a guess.

And after all this time — all the angst, the complications, the fears — it’s so amazingly simple; the purity of it warms her through.

“I love you, Mulder.”

He doesn’t move, but his eyes, his smile, tell her everything. She’s never seen him like this — the darkness of his many doubts entirely burned away, for the moment at least. She’ll tuck this sight, this feeling, deep in her heart, where it will glow like an ember for the rest of her days.

And then the intensity overwhelms them both and he crushes her to him; hearts pounding, they hug so tightly it’s as if they’re trying to fuse together. His sudden laugh rumbles through her, making her laugh too — joy is contagious, she supposes. He flops backward on the bed, pulling her fully on top of him, then rolls her over and kisses her soundly. She lets him, loves him, kisses him back. 

At last, slightly breathless, he says, “Hey Scully?”

“Yeah?”

“I smell.”

She giggles, sniffing loudly in the vicinity of his armpit — “Hooo, yes you do!”

“The humidity, the running —” he nips lightly at her earlobe — “the mind-blowing sex …” He thrusts against her hip, half-hard, and she moans just a little. “I need a shower. Keep me company? And then we can go to your room and mess up your bed too.”

“That’s the second-best idea you’ve had all night,” she agrees, about to allow him to get up at his leisure, but instead impulsively flipping him off of her and onto his back in an expert self-defense move.

“Daaaamn, G-woman …”

His goggle-eyed look of admiration makes her feel stupidly proud of herself and she laughs again. She helps him up; he uses his leverage to pull her to him, kissing her as he slips a hand under her — his — mostly-undone shirt to cup her breast.

“This isn’t … the shower …” she mumbles between kisses.

“OK, OK … we’re gettin there …” He walks her the few steps to the bathroom, twined together, and they clumsily turn the light on, shed what little clothing they’re wearing, start the water running, step in to the tub. Her eyes slide closed as the spray hits her head, and oh god, it all feels so good —

His appalled gasp snaps her eyes open again. He’s staring at her neck, her shoulder, her left breast, her hip — his gaze traveling a circuit, adding guilt by the inch.

“Jesus, Scully — look what I — oh my god, how could I hurt you like that?”

No, no no no no — she cannot, will not let him ruin this.

“Mulder.” It’s her sternest, sharpest, most commanding voice. He jerks to attention. She takes his face in both of her hands, forcing him to focus.

“Listen to me. None of this hurts.” He starts to object but she shakes her head sharply, warning him. “You are not allowed to steal this from me by feeling guilty.”

“But — I was so rough —”

“We. _We _were rough. It was rough sex, Mulder — look.” She taps just above his hip in the back; he turns awkwardly, trying to see, and then hisses a little when the water hits the four curved claw marks there — the scrapes she’d made, out on the porch. He looks — grateful? She touches the bite mark on his shoulder — it’s deep, she almost broke the skin. He relaxes the tiniest little bit and she knows she’s got this.

“It was rough,” she says, much lower; he leans toward her, as if pulled by an invisible thread. “But —” she slides her thumb over his bottom lip, lets the smoke creep into her voice, “It was entiiirely … consensual.”

His eyes darken. “Say that again.”

“Consensual,” she murmurs, ending with a little moue of her lips. He embraces her, breathing deeply, his cock stiffening between them. She reaches blindly around the curtain, grabs a towel, and drops it, still folded, to the bottom of the tub.

“Get on your knees, Mulder,” she says, and with a moan of longing, he does. He takes her ass in both hands, pressing his face to her lower abdomen, nudging gently at her dark curls as the water sluices down over them both.

“Not — ohhh — not right now,” she says, struggling to be heard, struggling against the renewed desire he’s provoking. He makes a questioning sound, and she adds, “Let me wash your hair — OK? Let me do this for you.”

He looks up at her, something very close to tears fighting with arousal, and nods. She pours shampoo into her hands, then rubs it gently into his hair, working her fingers into the thickness, scraping shallowly at his scalp, taking her time. His eyes drift closed, he drops his forehead to her hip and wraps his arms around her legs. She can’t tell whether he’s shuddering with pleasure or sobs but it doesn’t really matter — some intuition tells her he needs this, needs to be cared for and reassured without words; for herself, she needs to show him love beyond the sexual dimension.

When she’s done, she nudges him to stand and rinse off. He does, and it’s like a spell has been cast — they don’t speak, just bathe each other, tenderly, stealing kisses when they can. Finally he turns off the water and pulls down two more towels so they can take turns drying the other off. They lean together in the steamy silence, waves of exhaustion making them both sway a little.

“Bed?” she says at last.

He nods against her, then turns them both and leads them out of the room. He snags his dress shirt as he goes, handing it to her and ducking his head at her smile — apparently, he liked that look. He digs a pair of undershorts from his bag and puts them on while she works the complicated old-fashioned bolt on the pocket door between their rooms. It’s an enormous relief to collapse together into the cool sheets of her untouched bed — this one is a queen, high up off the floor, with a million pillows they knock unceremoniously to the rug.

The temperature has finally dropped a little, but it’s still warm enough that they don’t cover up. She nestles into his side, one arm flung across his chest, one leg over his. He strokes her hip lazily, a soft, soothing motion that lulls her nearly into a doze.

“Hey Scully,” he says again, his voice dreamy and smooth. 

“Mmm?”

“’m not afraid of this. Thought you should know that.” 

“Me either,” she answers honestly, a delicious golden feeling coursing through her on the slow tide of her pulse. “Not anymore.”

“Tha’s good,” he slurs. “You ’n me’s a good thing.” With that, he’s asleep, and she’s only seconds behind.

It _is_ a good thing, she thinks, with the last wisps of consciousness; a real thing — the most real. The truth.


End file.
